


A Gulf Divides Us

by Katreal



Series: St Maryam's Home for the Lost (and Found) [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Adoption, Beta Dirk Strider's Ghost, Earth C (Homestuck), Gen, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Past Character Death, Reincarnation, parental anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27296248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katreal/pseuds/Katreal
Summary: Parenting is hard when you've had zero decent role models. You can only try your best.If that best leaves you chewing on leather then by god you'll make a feast out of all these goddamn shoes.
Relationships: Dave Strider & Dirk Strider, Dave Strider & Karkat Vantas, Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Series: St Maryam's Home for the Lost (and Found) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775377
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79





	A Gulf Divides Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coolbrewed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbrewed/gifts).



> This work is a continuation of the series inspired by coolbrewed's reincarnation AU [[See the concept post here!]](https://coolbrewed.tumblr.com/post/620102378827448320/tumblr-can-have-another-au-concept-sketch-as-a)

Are you doing this right?

You think you’re doing this right.

After all, it’s been three days already and nothing’s fallen apart yet! 

No altercations. No fights. Nada. Just two chill dudes and their brand new wriggler living in a cozy as fuck house. Gettin’ your vibe on. It’s so fuckin’ domestic you have the urge to make your offerings to the porcelain throne and complete the process of reducing your dangerously high saccharine levels caused by the family dynamics goin’ on up in here.

The fact that you probably jumped a good two feet into the air when you rounded a corner and saw that too small, hat-brimmed silhouette back lit by a window--

Well. 

It’s fine.

Clearly.

You’re just lucky you’ve got the advantage of super speed and the kid barely seemed to register your presence given how buried his nose is in his brand spankin’ new smartphone. You’ve got both feet planted firmly on the ground and even got around to the ‘how’s the kids?’ part of your reintroduction to gravity before orange eyes bothered to acknowledge you at all. 

“What’s up sport?” You ask casually, oh so smoothly. It’s not lame at all when you are lame on purpose. “You’re taking to technology like a fish in water aren’t you? You sure you weren’t bullshi--” Jesus Christ, Dave. It’s only been _three days_. You bite your tongue, and you can’t even be mad when you hear a quiet snort of laughter.

You aren’t under any illusions that the kid-- _your kid--_ doesn’t know what you were about to say. It’s the fucking principle of the thing. “--anyway, you _sure_ you didn’t at _least_ have some kind of computer class??? I thought all schoolfeeding was done digitally now--something about easier distribution???”

Shoulders scrunch up, and the flicker of a smile dies on that guarded face. You mourn its passing, but at this point pointing it out would do nothing but make him feel more self conscious about it. You should know. 

You skip over the heartbeats of silence where an answer should go, pushing ahead anyway. “Speaking of school--I wanted to know if you had a preference on your poison on that front. I’m sorry I can’t just snap my fingers and get you out of mandatory baby-jail free, but if you’re up to it, we got time to decide if you want to go local or if you wanna do remote. I know it’s probably a lot quieter here than you’re used to--”

“Remote’s better!” The answer is all but blurted out, and you find your eyebrow sneaking up beyond your hairline. Dirk looks...nervous for the first time since you’ve gotten him here. Shifting uneasily from foot to foot. You give him a moment, in case he wants to elaborate, but when he declines to comment you just nod.

“I grew up homeschooled too, so I getcha. It’s much better now than back in my day. I literally just had an endless supply of book reports to deal with” You crack a smile, putting on an exaggerated old folk’s tone before continuing, “I’ll get with Jade and we’ll get you set-up with a sweet new rig--”

You keep going as he relaxes, just chattering about your time in the virtual big house in another world as you both head down the stairs. You weren’t necessarily intending to go down to the kitchen, but hey, that’s where he’s heading and you’re enjoying actually getting a chance to talk. You even get some Adulting done as you tick off a couple boxes on your parental checklist.

Mostly, you’re trying not to think about the fact that thinking back to your childhood makes you think back to someone else. 

You still haven’t asked why he always wears that hat inside. It feels too much like an intrusion, even as its presence continues to resurrect the ghost of childishly anxious energy that you just channel into your ramble instead. You’re a goddamn adult. You mastered the art of deflection over a _decade_ ago. 

“You know, the one thing I always missed out on was the whole friends thing. I wouldn’t trade my internet buddies for the world, but, I would consider it.” You mention, offhandedly, but you don’t miss the way he stiffens, “That isn’t to say you can’t have internet buddies, but, I’d be a bad parent if I didn’t point out that school is the numero uno spot to meet some chums your own age. Being a bad parent is against the law. Punishable by jail-time, don’t you know.”

Well. A contract made you promise. But it’s the same difference.

The exaggerated ‘cross-my-heart’ gesture was meant to maintain the easy going atmosphere. It fails miserably.

There’s something there, at the prospect of school--you can see it--a discomfort that shuts him right down. It couldn’t be the home, he seemed chill with them, but you hazard a guess that children in a post-scarcity utopia could be just as cruel as any assholes back on your mudball of a planet. Not that you’d ever had to deal with them, mind, but you saw enough shit in the time honored media clichés to know you dodged a bullet there, no matter how much you craved the sound of a voice that wasn’t your own to echo in a too empty (or, sometimes, not empty enough) apartment.

You turn abruptly. Crouching. You look him dead in the orange eyes that slide away from you nervously. You’re _invading_ his shit what the fuck are you doing.

What the fuck.

You’re too big and he’s too small and oh my god what are you doing.

In that split second you feel like you’re trapped behind the steering wheel of a semi-truck that you don’t even know how to drive even if you could, frantically laying into the horn as it barrels down a hill. To make matters worse there’s a whole fuckin’ school bus full of oblivious air-pod wearing too tiny Dirks with their phones in noses and no way to see the inevitable collision coming because the windows are blacked out.

You manage to get out of the goddamn blue screen by thinking of the dadliest of all dads who had ever dadded and reach out as if to scruff the kid’s hair, but the damn hat is in the way so you just put your hand down on his head in a fuckin’ pat as if it was what you were going for the whole time. “You’ll straight up murder this shhh--it, don’t worry about it. One way or another. If you don’t wanna be stuck in a classroom for an eternity to chat it up with some normies, we’ll just have to take some field trips. I’m sure St Maryams wouldn’t mind if you went back for uuuuh alumni day to see your friends or something.”

You manage to catch a mumbled, “Didn’t really have any.” before the small head ducks out from under your hand and you’re left staring at the back of a faded black tank as he beelines past the door to the kitchen and instead slips in through the living room. Through the walls you hear the heavy rumble of the sliding door to the balcony as one spooked kid makes his escape beyond the dubious safety of a curtain covered glass door.

It ain’t so dubious when you choose not to follow him, not that he knows that.

Jesus Christ, that was too far, apparently.

You’re a fuckin’ _moron._ You suck on your lip and then let it free with a click and the exhaled explicative you’ve been sitting on for fuckin’ _days._

Too fast. 

Fuck.

You have no fuckin’ idea what you are _doing._

Karkat seems to be having better luck at least. 

You come down one day to find a drawing stuck to the fridge. Not even with magnets--because why the hell would you even _have_ magnets--but with cheap, clear tape. You sure as hell didn’t put it up. The freakin’ _blush_ and ducked head lighting up the kid’s face rules him quite out. That leaves only one suspect, and when you broach the topic with Karkat one evening after Dirk had skulked away back to his room, you manage to wrangle a confession out of him.

“It’s not that big a deal.” Karkat snorts dismissively, not even bothering to look up from his desk. Or down. Directions are kinda hard right now because you’re currently floating upside down to encourage the migration of all your blood to your brain. It’s all part of your training regimen to encourage brain cell growth. “Yeah, I put it up. So what? Isn’t that what you do with human grubs?? Nurture and encourage their interests? Grow their self-esteem or some shit?”

“Why Kaaaaarkaaaaat--” You draw the syllables of his name out as long as you can before he shoots you a dirty look, “Have you been doing _research_ on child rearing _?”_

“Oh no, why would I _possibly_ want to know _anything_ about maintaining the health and developmental wellbeing of the sentient being that we are now both legally and morally responsible for??? After all, I grew up in a perfectly nurturing environment and not constantly forced to hide every little thing I cared about that didn’t involve skillsets of interest to the Alternian Conquest Machine.”

A pregnant pause.

“For someone so insistent on hiding the fact that he’s a fucking _god_ , you aren’t very good at keeping your feet on the floor.”

“He’s upstairs. It’s fine.” You would hear the creak of the floorboards if there was a little mouse sneaking around, after all. The kid was quiet, but there’s a certain carelessness to his footsteps, the carelessness of one who never felt it necessary to hide all evidence of their passage. There’s a stark difference between one who prefers not to be seen and one who _can’t_ let themselves be seen.

As you well know. You click your tongue against your teeth, and push that particular train of thought off a cliff without so much of a thought to the passengers. “You know I’m full of hot air. Gotta get some use out of it while I can. Don’t want to straight up burst from overcapacity or anything.”

If there are words in the growl, you can’t understand them. And you don’t really try as a grey hand shoots up and snags you--in this case claws hook into the fabric covering your shoulder--and drags you down.

Now, you can’t say you ever grow _tired_ of kissing Karkat. Especially not when he’s so beautifully exasperated. But after a decade and change, you kinda get used to it--you never thought you’d be into the pointy ass teeth biting down on your lip, but hey, here you are. Here you are in this weird, muddy zone of red and black that neither of you bother to define even as Karkat calls you his matesprit, and you still don’t understand the hateboner part of trollmance, but whatever, for him you long since decided that you’re 100% on board despite whatever he decides this shit is.

The fact that you can still leave him breathless, and he can still leave you with a pathetically besotted grin on a face that forever shall default to the epitome of casual indifference is testament to that.

When he lets you go, he follows up with a snort and the cold shoulder, turning back to the manuscript he’s been shredding with a red pen for the last several months, “Fine. Go ahead. If you want to flirt with danger, be my guest. Don’t come crying to me when it bites your face off.”

“What can I say, Danger’s runnin’ one hell of a pick up game. You know I can’t resist a bad come on.” You do finally flip yourself upright, however you do not let your shoes settle on the floor. Instead you float behind your matesprit, arms wrapping around his neck and chin resting comfortably in the curve between that thick neck and solid shoulders. An act that he takes with little more than the slightest of headbutts as he bumps his head up against yours, white and black hair mixing just like your life together in the corner of your vision. “Do you have any recommendations? Maybe on boundaries? I’ve been chewing on shoe leather whenever I try to talk about anything that isn’t as full of bullshit as the pantheon.”

Your only answer comes as a grunted, “Ask Kanaya.”

You sigh heavily, “Any recommendations that do _not_ involve contacting my sister-in-law? I was hoping for like--a book or some shit.”

Wait.

“ _You_ didn’t ask Kanaya, did you???”

Shit, if Karkat already spilled the beans--

The plastic casing of the pen slams down against the wooden desk with a clatter, your troll-shaped pillow deflating with a frustrated sigh. “ _No._ I did _not_ spill the beans already.”

“Okay, that’s not fair. You’re not allowed to read my mind.”

He’s rolling his beautiful red and yellow eyes. You know it. You’d be able to see them in the reflection of the window if you just reached out and tugged the curtains open. “I didn’t read your mind, you overgrown monkey. You know you can’t keep putting this off.”

“It’s barely been two weeks! He needs time to settle before meetin’ the fam. You know how Mom’d be--shit. Not mom. Christ I need to _not_ call her mom. _God,_ can you imagine trying to explain that shit to him???” The mere _thought_ makes you want to vomit oh my god. And that’s not even getting into the sticky situation that’d crop up the minute she’d see his face or hear his name--

“For fuck’s sake, Dave!” You’re abruptly shoved off your perch, sent spinning until you right yourself in the air to come face to frowny face with the troll as he rises from his seat at the desk, any pretense to work abandoned along with the documents, “You don’t have to tell _everyone_. But you need to tell your fucking harpy of a sibling so she _stops calling_ every gogdamned _day_.”

Your brain skips like a scratched record.

Rose has been... _calling?_

The question dies in your throat and you just let out the most unmanly of squeaked fragments, “Already???”

“ _Yes._ ” A frustrated exhale as a grey hand massages what must rival the mother of all stress migraines, “Jegus. It’s always at the same time too. She’s gotta be doing it to torment me _specifically._ You never answer the fucking landline.”

Well yeah. Why _would_ you when you have the hottest of scientifically impossible brain-reading, full blown computing iShades? Though with the way SkaiaNet’s been ramping up between Jade and Jake that might not remain scientifically impossible for much longer.

The point _is_ , if she actually wanted to talk to _you_ , she’d be hittin’ you up with her purple text not calling the antiquated house phone you only keep because Karkat absolutely _despises_ the thought of carrying around what he calls a glorified tracking device and needs some way to let Kanaya know he’s not actually dead.

“Christ I’ll--”

You don’t know.

You stare at the phone the next day under Karkat’s direct scowling supervision, as it rings and rings and rings. Kanaya’s number blinking cheerily on the green display.

_Fine._

You barely hit the accept button and put the receiver to your ear before the crackling digitized voice of one Rose LaLonde slides out of the speaker into your ears.

“Brother, dearest! How kind of you to take my call! I’m just calling to inquire as to when were you going to tell your beloved sister as to the existence of her new nephew?”

“If you already know, then why ask?” Why yes. You _are_ whining. You flip Karkat the bird when he loses it laughing and leaves you to your misery. Apparently he’s not in the mood for schadenfreude today. Or he’s just feeling merciful.

“Dave, don’t be rude. You _know_ I don’t do that anymore.”

“And _you_ know that _I know_ that you can’t help being a nosy know-it-all.”

A tired sigh. “If it soothes some of your ruffled feathers, I only know that you _did_ make the decision, nothing more. Out of respect for your privacy I’ve refrained from peering too deeply. This does nothing to assuage my curiosity, and indeed only makes it grow all the more tempting to fall back into bad habits.”

“Oh we couldn’t have that, could we?” You snort, trapping the handset between your shoulder and your head at an odd angle. “I suppose you want me to break out the scrap book and take you page by page to illustrate every single moment you have missed since you just _happen_ to live so far away. I’m surprised you didn’t just fuckin’ show up at the doorstep the day we brought him home.”

“Oh, Kanaya talked me out of that plan.”

“And yet she _didn’t_ try and talk you out of harassing information out of Karkat?”

“It doesn’t take a Seer to recognize a lost cause.” Goddamn it, Rose has _no right_ to sound so smug about that. If your lips are curling it’s because it’s a grimace. Not a smile. _Really._

“Listen, Rose I--” Fuck. Now it really is a grimace. Self fulfilling prophecy there, “Did you See anything at all? About this? Anything... _weird?”_

She isn’t even saying anything and you can _feel_ the playful energy drain from the faint static crackling across the old-fashioned device. You can see her in your mind’s eye, painted lips thinning and eyes narrowing as Rose Lalonde catches the whiff of a secret in the scent rising from the neck of an open bottle. 

“No. I did not.” A pause. “ _Should I?”_

Should she Look?

Use the powers that plagued her for years, growing ever stronger, invading her waking and sleeping moments until she learned to close her eyes to the tapestry of an unfettered destiny and just live in the present.

Just like you’ve learned to ignore the ticking of the clock of the universe, counting down and down and down until even this one inevitably ends.

(You aren’t cut out to be gods. You just want to live.)

What would she See if she did?

(Would she see Dirk? Not the Dirk drawing in the upstairs bedroom, but the one you see in the curve of his face.)

(The Dirk with the dead eyes.)

Would you even want to know?

“No.” You answer. Almost reluctantly. “Don’t. If you didn’t--If you didn’t get a hunch or something don’t bother with it. Shit’s cool. I’m just over here trippin’ over my feet trying to figure out how to bond with my own grub. It’s fuckin’ _hard._ How does Kanaya do it???”

You know that question was the equivalent of poking a sleeping bear with a super short stick and you’re fully within mauling range if the sleepy eye train on you is any indication. 

A sigh that might be your name fills the silence that stretches so long you want to hold your breath and count, but in the end, the bear closes it’s eyes and rolls back over to go back to sleep. “With a lot of patience, I assume. Care to extrapolate?”

The breathe hisses free, and you curl up on the sofa and tell her about the strangeness that is the last two weeks.

You don’t lie.

But you never tell her his name.

She _has_ to notice. Rose Lalonde is too sharp to miss that niggling little omission.

If she does...she doesn’t call you on it.

Not yet, anyway.

Saving that axe for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> ...it's still Friday somewhere.


End file.
